


A Thousand Memories

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the kiss, M/M, Victorian, Watson is brave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Holmes and Watson’s courtship continues.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 20
Kudos: 96





	A Thousand Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тысяча воспоминаний](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28831572) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Well, we all knew that I would fall behind at some point, but I didn’t think it would be this soon or this far behind. I apologise, but real life has been rather kicking me about. Nothing serious, I hasten to add, just lots of little things. But after tomorrow, I will be on a [safe] getaway with nothing to do but eat, drink, watch old movies, read and write. So I hope to be caught up at some point. Meanwhile, I hope you will enjoy this entry!
> 
> And I still keep forgetting the darn prompts. This one is Memory.

Love...comes and touches you  
with a thousand memories   
And asks you   
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

-Sandburg, C.

The subject of memory is an interesting one to contemplate.

I am hardly the first to think so, of course. Great minds from Aristotle, who theorized that memories are primarily composed of associations among various experiences, to Mr Darwin, who sees them as an evolutionary development intended to perform specific tasks, have considered the idea of Memory as meriting consideration.

I do wonder what either of those worthies would think of the particular way I have of dealing with my own memories. Namely, the rooms in my brain where I store such things. Some of the rooms are locked up tightly and I never open them. Other rooms hold those facts that help me with the Work. Sometimes those memories stay there permanently, but other times I find they are no longer of use and so can be discarded. It would not do for the attics to become overly cluttered.

Now, undoubtedly all of those fine thoughts are perfect for late night rumination in front of the fire, with a large whisky in hand. But on this cold winter’s night, such idle speculation did not suit me. I needed more, because the memories flooding my mind were threatening to wash me from the shore, to sweep me into the tumult of the storm-tossed sea.

I swallowed some whisky and then performed the familiar [and possibly comforting] ritual of lighting my best pipe. It was such a quiet night that the sound of the Bryant and May strike anywhere match being struck seemed loud in the room. Snow outside was muffling whatever middle of the night passing traffic there might be on Baker Street. Everyone else in the household was lost to Morpheus, it seemed. Even Watson, whom I knew from long co-habitation, to often be a restless sleeper, was silent on this night. No thrashing or moans emanated from my bedroom.

And there it was.

Dr John Watson was sleeping in my bed.

I leant back in the chair and closed my eyes, giving myself up to the memories of the evening just passed.

*

I was deep into a Greek treatise on the subject of poisons [Book 5 of Celsus] when I heard footsteps just beyond my door. It was Watson, of course; I would know the sound of his approach anywhere or any time. He had retired earlier, claiming a headache, which I had discounted at once. I knew he wanted solitude, probably to think upon recent events.

It had been two days since I kissed Watson as we stood in the parlour. 

Then we had been interrupted by Mrs Hudson bringing our dinner.

Before the meal was even finished, that dolt Lestrade turned up with a problem he could not solve. Unsurprisingly, as such helplessness was his usual state. Only today had we finally resolved the case of the missing parrot. Which seems frivolous, until one knows that the parrot had swallowed a precious gem and that his owner had been brutally slain by the thief.

[It is a bad habit to wander down such discursive paths. That I was doing so now was an indication of the tumult ruling my brain.]

To return to the subject: Watson came to my bedroom door.

He stood outside for several minutes and whilst I knew he was there, I just let him ponder matters until he felt ready to enter. Finally, he tapped, too lightly, on the door. “Holmes,” he said.

“Come in,” I said, for some reason smoothing my hair.

The door opened and he stepped in. It seemed significant that he closed the door again once inside.

Somehow, I knew immediately that I would never forget the sight of John Watson standing in my room that night.

As unlikely as it sounds, he seemed to glow in the pale light of my room; his golden hair was just slightly mussed, which told me that while dallying in the hall, he had run his fingers through it nervously. Once again, I was reminded that he looked younger without the mustache he’d had when we were first acquainted. The dressing gown he wore nicely flattered his trim and tidy frame. Looking at him, my entire being was consumed by a sense of need, of pure _want_ that was foreign to me.

I did not say anything.

“I suggest,” Watson said slowly, “that since neither of us finds words on the subject to come easily, we might not speak for now.”

“And instead of words?”

He only shrugged.

“Well, to begin with, you needn’t stand over there.” I gestured to the bed.

He carefully removed his slippers and then came to sit beside me. He reached over and took my hand in his.

His hand: small, but strong, a surgeon’s hand, although he no longer practised that art. A soldier’s hands, slightly calloused, although these days he served only one selfish consulting detective rather than an Empire. I let my fingertips move over his hand, committing each centimeter to memory. If called upon, I could draw an accurate representation of it.

Somehow we both shifted just enough that our bodies pressed together. Shoulders. Hips. Thighs. I thought we fit together quite well. Apparently, proximity served to loosen my tongue, because I said as much aloud.

Watson gave a soft laugh. “Perhaps destiny intended it so.”

I was not sure that I even believed in destiny, but I merely hummed in response. A sudden impulse took me and I bent my head to nuzzle a bit at his neck. His scent, with which I was quite familiar, was more concentrated here. Tea and soap and wool. A bit of the Rowlands’ Kolydor he liked to splash on after a shave. And a whisper of the Macassar Oil he used sparingly on his hair. An olfactory catalogue of John Watson.

We kissed. For a very long time we kissed. Already his mouth had become a familiar haven and it seemed I was only willing to pull back when breathing became necessary.

He smiled at me and I kissed him again, to learn the flavour of his smile.

We were quite ridiculous, of course, tentative as two virgins, although at least one of us had experiences on three continents, if rumour were to be believed. My prick began to stir and it seemed he was equally eager. His scent changed slightly and I made a careful note of that.

Then he pulled back. “I would like to sleep in here with you tonight,” he murmured.

“Just sleep?” I said, feeling some unexpected courage.

“For tonight, yes,” he replied. “I would simply like to discover the pleasure of sleeping next to you.”

There was nothing ridiculous about his suggestion, nothing tentative. The words were those of a man who knew what he wanted and I suddenly wanted it very much as well.

There was some mild fussing with dressing gowns and a lamp to be extinguished, but soon the room was dark and we were settled down side by side. Then Watson turned his back to me and I moved to embrace him. It seemed quite natural.

He fell into sleep quickly and so I learned the sounds of Watson asleep from a much closer position than previously. His soft inhalations and exhalations. An occasional mumble or grumble. The slide of his skin against the bedding. 

I put my mouth next to his ear and whispered of my devotion, although I knew he would not hear me.

Even so, he sighed.

*  
And now I possessed a thousand memories. All from only this single night.

After a lifetime together, perhaps I would be made up of nothing but the memories I had collected of John Watson. Which seemed an excellent notion

With that terribly fanciful thought, I finished the whisky, banked the fire and went back to my—or dare I say our—bed.

**


End file.
